“One in subway,” he whispered.

But Leo felt a knot in his stomach. It was too easy. The Dragons weren’t stupid. They were cruel.

He heard them fanning out. One in the courtyard. One in the bookstore. One flanking through the sewer.

A shadow moved.

Counter-Terrorists Win.

“I can’t see! I can’t—” Dmitri’s mic cut off as a terrorist named [Dragon_Viper] knifed him from behind. The silent, sickening shhk of the animation made Leo wince.

Leo was the Counter-Terrorist team’s AWPer. His palms were slick. On his left, Sam, the entry-fragger, was chugging a Monsters energy drink like it was liquid courage. On his right, Dmitri, the support, had his headset cranked so loud the hiss of static bled into the room.

This was the Warzone. Not the map—the state of mind. It was the place where fifteen-year-olds became veterans, where reaction time was a religion, and where a single pixel of an elbow around a corner meant life or death.